


The Four of Us

by aidennestorm



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood, Canon Era, Face-Fucking, Gang Rape, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Manhandling, Morally Ambiguous Washington, Multi, Possessiveness, Rape Fantasy, Rough Sex, Voyeurism, doppelgangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17844155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm
Summary: To give your earnest desire,the spell read, but it’s like all magic: nebulous and unspecific. Washington earnestly desires to win this war, yes, but his truest desire is Hamilton.Always,Hamilton.





	The Four of Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamlittleyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Only One Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9552575) by [dreamlittleyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo). 



> Have you read Only One Man yet? While not a sequel, this fic is an AU of sorts to that one, so I _highly recommend_ you read that first.
> 
> Happy Presidents' Day, my friends. ;)

Despite the ambiguous description of the promised results, the spellbook’s instructions for the actual working are precise.

Once Hamilton and Washington reach the moonlit clearing, tying their horses in a copse of trees a safe distance away with one of the coils of rope from Hamilton’s rucksack, they strip off their uniform jackets to more easily move. By the careless way Hamilton shoves his jacket into Washington’s hands and immediately starts digging deeper in the bag, he knows that his aide thinks nothing of it, the lack of customary propriety nowhere near significant in the face of the miracle they are attempting tonight.

But Washington— superfluous, now, until Hamilton deems the preparations ready— carefully folds the heavy fabric and sets the bundle on the ground, next to the necessary items being laid out. They’ll be a little dusty at the end of the night, but with every day being conducted under the shadows of destruction at scarcely a moment’s warning, no one back at camp will notice. It gives Washington ample opportunity to watch his boy work, and—

— he’s … become a point of _distraction,_ over the past few months. Hamilton, nimble and slender, moving with hurried purpose. Hamilton unkempt, tendrils of hair falling out of his queue, ink staining his fingers. So perfectly shaped and made that Washington _knows,_ even without experience, that Hamilton would fit in the crush of his arms, small and unable to break free. Staying right where Washington wants him, right where he belongs, _always._

“Sir?”

Washington forces himself back to the task at hand before his thoughts turn too deeply to the carnal. Back to Hamilton, who is holding out the cedar branch that was meticulously carved into a sharp point before they left camp. As expected, Washington holds out his hand, palm up. Though he doesn’t make a move or a sound in response, the warmth of Hamilton’s hand under his own, steadying him as he readies the branch over the meat of Washington’s palm, sends sparks of pleasure through him. The pain as Hamilton scratches him decisively, small beads of blood forming on his skin and staining the tip of the wood, barely registers in comparison.

Hamilton nods approvingly, eyes fixed on the branch, and murmurs the incantation. Washington pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his hand clean as Hamilton kneels in the dirt and etches a tri-point in one quick and fluid movement. After placing the fresh, unburned candles at each point, Washington readies the tinderbox, starting a little fire for Hamilton to light the wood.

Hamilton repeats the soft words again before lighting each candle with the smoldering cedar— and when he drives the branch into the ground to extinguish it, Washington closing the tinderbox to snuff the kindling flame, the air feels still and quiet and oppressive. It’s a noted contrast from what the forest felt like when they arrived, temperate and full of life. But they can still see by the full moon, which is how they’re able to see—

 _“Sir,”_ Hamilton breathes— excitement and awe, perhaps even puzzlement. Washington peers beyond the candles, then, the flames having started to flicker despite the lack of breeze, and he sees his own face— his own body— reflected back at him. Not once, not twice, but _three_ times as mute, motionless forms. An instinctual dread creeps down the back of Washington’s neck as he turns slowly, taking the measure of each… _doppelgänger_ in turn. They don’t flinch. Don’t blink. But Washington can feel their gazes follow him somehow, heavy and watchful.

He understands Hamilton’s confusion, shares it— what use are mere shades of a man to this endless war? But Hamilton— ever curious, ever needing to know more— starts to draw closer to investigate, and Washington quickly reaches out and snags Hamilton by the arm. His boy makes an unhappy yelp of protest but otherwise allows himself to be reeled in, his back bumping against Washington’s chest. The heat emanating from Hamilton’s body is palpable, and Washington tries to ignore the brush of Hamilton’s queue, the curve of his ass pressed enticingly against him. His hand remains on Hamilton’s arm, protective and possessive.

He leans in, his lips almost but not quite brushing Hamilton’s ear. “Be cautious,” he warns, a tense whisper. “We don’t know their purpose.”

Hamilton nods once, jerky and sharp. As if summoned to attention by his voice, the eyes of the doppelgänger directly in front of them snap from a fathomless stare to look directly into Washington’s eyes. _“You_ know what we want,” it— _he?—_ declares, stepping toward them. _“We_ are what you want.”

He tightens his grip on Hamilton in response, attempts to be simultaneously reassuring and urgent, and feels the confusion run through him. “Sir?” Hamilton asks, quiet and unsure.

Those dark, inhuman eyes flick down Hamilton’s frame— purposeful, Washington realizes, suspicion solidifying into coherent thought. Washington sees it fully, then, the trap he blindly, _foolishly_ led them both into, and the realization is like a ball of shot directly to his gut. _To give your earnest desire,_ the spell read, but it’s like all magic: nebulous and unspecific. He earnestly desires to win this war, yes, but his _truest_ desire is Hamilton. Always, _Hamilton._ Hamilton in various states of undress: cravat askew, waistcoat unbuttoned, breeches tangled around his ankles, fully nude. Finally under him at last, writhing beneath his hand, around his cock. Willing and eager and moaning, his beautiful face twisted in pleasure— or, strongest of all, _unwilling._ Begging. Pleading. Tears sliding down his cheeks as he gags on the length in his mouth, or with his ass full and perfectly tight, fingers clutching desperately to find some purchase and get away.

Washington’s heart beats frantic and wild as the doppelgänger’s face— _his_ face— contorts into something like a sneer. And he recognizes the hunger in the doppelgänger’s eyes, has seen it enough in the mirror. If they know his mind, have his shape, it’s also not unreasonable to surmise that they share his desires and his strength, if not his control. Not so unreasonable, since if there is _ever_ proof that his control utterly failed, this is it. Tonight, when he should have been at his most focused, when he should have been single-minded toward a noble goal…

This could have been prevented. Avoided. And even though Washington knows— he _knows—_ how this standoff will ultimately end, he has to try. He forces his voice steady as he murmurs, "You have to go."

And _damn him,_ Hamilton shifts in his grasp and turns his head, startled, as he asks too loudly, "What do you—"

 _“Hamilton,”_ he hisses, because although only one doppelgänger is within viable touching range, the bottomless stares of all three are now on Hamilton. "Listen to me. We are in danger. _You_ are in danger."

Hamilton continues to look at him over his shoulder, his confusion hardening into determination when he retorts back, "I'm not leaving you. We stand a better chance two on three."

 _"Damn it,_ Colonel," he snaps, shaking Hamilton slightly under his hand. Hamilton stills in his hold, eyes dark and wide and shining in the moonlight. "This is a _direct order._ When I signal, you _run,_ and do not look back."

Hamilton’s breath hitches, and Washington steels himself for an argument for which they _do not have time—_ but Hamilton mercifully gives in, nods with a faint “Yes, sir.” Whether Hamilton is able to successfully escape despite the impossibility of such a thing, or if what Washington fears is about to pass comes true, either way… he will lose Hamilton. Has already lost him, a casualty of the destruction he so carelessly conjured through Hamilton’s hands.

But he allows himself one final moment, the indulgence of a whisper. “Alexander...”

And were it not for the tensing of Hamilton’s shoulders, Washington would believe he hadn’t heard. He squeezes Hamilton’s arm, short and final. _“Now.”_

Hamilton lurches out of his arms as Washington strides forward, intercepting the doppelgänger in front of them by seizing him before he can grab Hamilton. He’s as strong as Washington expected, but surprisingly quick, and shifts the hold so he twists Washington’s right arm behind his back in a painful grip. He chokes down the shout that springs to his lips, sees Hamilton ducking under the grasp of another duplicate out of the corner of his eye. Washington lets the momentum of the doppelgänger binding him propel him into colliding into the path of the third duplicate, who stumbles and has to work to keep his footing.

Hamilton weaves out of the circle, hurtling toward the horses as a sharp, unexpected glimmer of hope rises in Washington’s chest— only to be crushed when the attacker Hamilton originally evaded follows him with increasing speed and launches himself to close the distance. His large bulk crashes into Hamilton and they fall to the ground, Hamilton crying out in pain.

Washington tries to wrench himself out of his own assailant’s hold; no matter how unsurprising this is, it’s still _unacceptable._ But the duplicate he tripped, having since risen from the ground, grabs his other arm. He pulls against them but the hands are equal in strength to his own and he could perhaps resist one, but not two. He’s still struggling, craning his neck and trying to keep Hamilton in his line of sight, as he’s marched past their forgotten packs. Without even letting go, one of the doppelgängers scoops up the remaining coil of rope; after they manage to pin him to the nearest tree and bodily force him to his knees, they tie him down with knots Washington already knows he won’t be able to escape.

The duplicate that tackled Hamilton drags him back to the tri-point as Washington finds himself summarily ignored, the other two leaving to join them. Hamilton attempts to pull away and dig in his heels even as he grimaces, in what ends up being an ineffective display of resistance. “God damn it, let me _go_ , fucking _get off_ me—”

Something shifts in Washington’s chest, something hot and jagged, because despite his desire to take Hamilton in increasingly brutal ways, this is _his_ Hamilton. This is _his_ boy, and no one else— not even his own shadow— is allowed to touch him, take him, _own_ him. The snarl escapes his mouth before he knows he’s even making a sound, his body straining forward uselessly against his bonds.

One of the doppelgängers— the one who sneered at them, the one who looked into Washington’s eyes and knew _everything—_ approaches Hamilton. Reaches out a steady hand and strokes Hamilton’s cheek. Hamilton’s face is dirt-smudged, a cut on his temple sticky with blood. But his glare is defiant and he leans away from the unwelcome touch, even though the duplicate standing at his back prevents him from moving far.

“Such a pretty thing,” the doppelgänger murmurs, his hand sliding into Hamilton’s hair. With a quick flick of his wrist he tugs the cord out of Hamilton’s hair and dark locks tumble free, the cord replaced soon after with his fingers tangled through the strands. “No wonder your general watches you. No wonder he _wants_ you.”

Disbelief, swift and severe, cuts across Hamilton’s face. _“No,”_ he spits adamantly, “you’re _wrong."_

“What a foolish little lion.” The doppelgänger’s free hand, the one not curled in Hamilton’s hair, comes to rest on Hamilton’s chest. Hamilton sucks in a ragged breath but doesn’t stop squirming, and the hand slides lower, across his abdomen, the top of his hips—

 _“Stop.”_ Washington puts all the force of command in his voice, matching it to the command in his mind. If the duplicates were summoned by force of will, perhaps they can be _banished_ by force of will too— _“Release him.”_

The doppelgänger laughs, harshly, hand stroking Hamilton’s hip in small circles. Hamilton tries to edge away from the touch, but it only succeeds in pressing him further into the arms of the duplicate at his back. By now all three of them are crowding around Hamilton, and Washington can barely see him around the solid wall of muscle that separates them. “Why?” the doppelgänger taunts. “This is what you truly want, your heart’s _earnest desire._ Your sweet Hamilton, no matter what _he_ wants.” The hand slips lower, brushing over Hamilton’s cock still tucked away in his breeches.

Washington’s breath stops in his chest. _“No,”_ he protests vehemently— a blatant lie— but Hamilton is already looking at him with something akin to mounting awareness and horror as Washington struggles against the ropes.

The hand closes around Hamilton’s cock and Hamilton cries out, babbling and pleading as he tries to twist out from under the touch. “Stop, _damn it,_ you _can’t,_ sir—!”

At hearing the helplessness and terror in Hamilton’s voice, the rage crashes over Washington in a boiling wave, so intense that he sees nothing but the pounding of his blood when he threatens, “I created you and _you will obey me.”_ But he’s too preoccupied with staring at the tableau in front of him, staring at Hamilton who is still regarding him with unfamiliar mistrust clawing through his gaze, to register the duplicate that approaches him and backhands him across the face. The blow is hard enough for him to taste iron, dazes him enough that the world shivers on its axis and the duplicate can grab his jaw and force his mouth open, shoving his own blood-stained handkerchief in his mouth.

As Washington tries in vain to yell for Hamilton, his voice muffled and words indistinguishable, the doppelgänger touching Hamilton yanks down Hamilton’s breeches until they pool on the ground. An enormous hand wraps fully around Hamilton’s cock, now, and gives a few slow, teasing strokes.

Hamilton _moans,_ then, a wounded sound that makes his face twist in shock and fear and pierces Washington to the core in the most beautiful and terrible ways. Within moments Hamilton is hard, his cock flushed under the attentive ministrations, his protests interspersed with irrepressible whimpers: “Oh god _please,_ please stop, oh _fuck—”_

Washington is damned for looking, but it’s impossible to look away. Even more impossible when the doppelgänger releases Hamilton’s cock but never lets go of his hair, and pushes an unwilling Hamilton to his knees. While the other two watch with ravenous stares, he frees his visibly stiff cock, identical in every way to Washington’s, and nudges the head against Hamilton’s tightly closed lips.

Washington forgets to breathe.

The doppelgänger twists his fingers tighter into Hamilton’s hair, _tighter_ , until the pain is too much to bear and in an involuntary lurch of panic Hamilton’s mouth falls open on a gasp.

Washington can’t _think._

Unlike the assault on Hamilton’s cock, there’s no slowness. No buildup. The doppelgänger pushes Hamilton’s face forward, fucking him deeper onto his cock, Hamilton’s throat working in a gurgled, thick gag. Each new drag of friction causes the doppelgänger to groan audibly, the next thrust more vigorous than the last.

“Look at that pretty mouth around your general’s cock,” he growls, the tears pooling in Hamilton’s red rimmed eyes, tracking down wet cheeks.

The tip of his nose bumps the doppelgänger’s stomach as he’s pushed down to the hilt, forcibly held there as the doppelgänger comes down Hamilton’s throat. Hamilton looks up at his assailant, anguished, but Washington only has eyes for Hamilton— Hamilton’s throat working as he has no choice but to swallow, come trickling out the side of his mouth and down his chin. Hamilton debauched.

Hamilton _raped._

And oh, _fuck,_ he is hard. So hard it can’t be unnoticeable, straining against the fabric of his breeches. It’s only a matter of time before the duplicates notice, before _Hamilton_ notices. And he’s long since stopped struggling against the ropes; he tells himself it’s because the duplicates knew too well how to secure him, that he shouldn’t waste energy trying to escape in a pointless effort when he can seize a future chance—

But he’s lying. It’s because he’s watching. Because he’s _interested._

When the doppelgänger pulls out of Hamilton’s mouth, cock is still thick and hard, Hamilton gags again, almost doubling over with the force of his retching. He doesn’t move far, though, as the hand in his hair tugs sharply and Hamilton’s head falls back, another duplicate already waiting to take the place of the first. While his mouth is filled with another cock and more moans of pleasure pierce the air, the first one gestures for the duplicate restraining Hamilton to shift aside.

The doppelgänger slides two fingers into his own mouth, sucks on them and slicks them up in an utterly obscene manner that makes Washington restless with uncomfortable arousal. Hamilton chokes around a particularly hard thrust, and the damp fingers slide into the cleft of his ass—

Hamilton’s eyes open wider, shock striking through him. His chest shudders on a sob, his body trembling and writhing to get away from the intruding hand, but only managing to further impale himself. The doppelgänger’s hand twists, once, twice, again, and Hamilton cries out, sounding wrecked and desperate. It’s not enough, it _can’t_ be enough, yet the doppelgänger removes his hand and slides it across Hamilton’s skin. Delicate. Tender. And Washington is sickeningly breathless, his chest tight.

But when the doppelgänger grasps the base of his cock, slick with come and saliva, and presses the head against Hamilton’s undoubtedly tight hole, it’s not delicate. When he pauses, then snaps his hips in a quick, violent jerk, it’s not tender. Hamilton _screams,_ a curdling shriek of agony unmistakable even without words.

The pace the doppelgänger sets is relentless, brutal, merciless. Each rough slide of the cock inside his ass, too much to bear, pushes Hamilton further down the cock in his mouth, until the duplicate comes and Hamilton has no choice but to swallow or drown in it. The spent yet still hard cock rests heavy on his tongue until the next duplicate smoothly takes his place, and each thrust of the cock filling his throat pushes him back onto the cock tearing him open from behind.

And Washington— he manages with marked, shameful difficulty to keep his hips still. To not thrust mindlessly into the air, seeking the same heat, the same pressure. But his arousal hasn’t abated; if anything, it’s grown _stronger._ He wants to will his state away even as he wants to be free of his bonds so he can take himself in hand, because this scene—

It is imprinted into him now. He will never be able to look at Hamilton without _seeing_ this. He will never be able to think about Hamilton without _remembering_ this, without hearing Hamilton’s keens and cries. Without the jealousy flaring hot in his veins because he was damned from the moment he laid eyes on Hamilton, and if this _brutality_ was unavoidable, unassailable, Washington can think only _this could have been mine alone._

As the moon tracks across the sky, the duplicates switch positions. After the first one comes buried stones deep in Hamilton’s ass, another one takes his place; when Hamilton’s mouth is once again filled with come, another duplicate forces him to take more. It only takes a few changes in position for Washington to lose track of them, mesmerized and obsessed with the way they _use_ Hamilton. The way Hamilton’s thighs are wrenched impossibly apart and two huge cocks are shoved inside him. His boy’s screams and sobs as his reluctant arousal, leaking and neglected, is stroked to completion by a broad hand. The muffled, devastated moan Hamilton gives around the cock in his mouth as he’s filled and fucked again and again and _again._

When the deep black of night fades into the paler blue of the coming dawn, Hamilton stops fighting. He lays limply, motionless and quiet, when the duplicates empty into his abused, battered body one last time. When they pull out— not gentle, not careful—  come and blood drips onto his thighs, onto the ground. Hamilton’s skin is mottled with bruises, streaked from unforgiving shoves into the dirt.

And, watching this, Washington is stretched taut like a saber’s edge, wound and sharp and deadly. It isn’t just the painful way his cock is confined in his breeches, unable to seek release, it’s the rage honed into something _useful._ He can admit to himself now that he may want his boy broken, but he doesn’t want him wholly maimed or dead. _Never._ And the duplicates’ blatant disregard for Hamilton _now,_ in his most vulnerable moments, incenses him beyond all point of reason.

For the first time in hours one of the doppelgängers glances in his direction and immediately notices his heightened state. He grins, twisted and cruel. “You should have joined us.”

The thought makes him want to retch. The thought arouses him.

But he doesn’t answer, can’t answer, with his mouth still stuffed full of fabric. He only stares at them, challenging, when all three stand as one and abandon Hamilton’s body. They approach him as they have done with all their actions: deliberate and menacing. “Though we owe you for granting us life and for such a lovely… _gift,_ our thanks only extend so far.” The doppelgänger stops, kneeling in front of him, the grin still on his face as he continues, “You will kill us as soon as you can get free.”

Washington _knows_ what’s about to happen, is powerless to stop it. The hands, mirror images to his own, roughly grasp the sides of his head and position for the killing snap and he closes his eyes, the final image in his mind one of Hamilton—

 _hamilton writing hamilton smiling hamilton laughing hamilton angry hamilton bruised hamilton moaning hamilton sobbing hamilton broken hamilton’s hair hamilton’s mouth hamilton’s eyes hamilton hamilton hamilton_ alexander

— and then there’s another scream, but it’s not from Hamilton; not from his own breast, either. He opens his eyes to see— unpredictably, _impossibly—_ the doppelgängers writhing, their forms becoming non-corporeal, dissolving and fading into nothing more than dust blown away by the wind. When he looks at the tri-point in shock, the candles are extinguished, knocked askew, the shape nothing more than unremarkable soil. And in the center—

Hamilton. On his hands and knees in the dirt, his balance unsteady, his head hung low. Panting. In obvious agony, but _alive._

Washington doesn’t try to call out around his makeshift gag. Doesn’t dare. But it’s as if Hamilton hears him anyway, head rising a moment later, unreadable eyes sweeping over Washington's body. Taking in his immobilization. His expression. His _arousal._ This scrutiny is worse than that of the doppelgängers, but he remains still even though he aches to turn away. He can give Hamilton this, at least.

Washington doesn’t know how Hamilton plans to untie him, or even if Hamilton _will._

Hamilton disappears inside his own eyes, assessing and evaluating, before he finally starts moving. It’s a slow, painful process, but Hamilton crawls across the distance separating them, dragging himself the few feet from the center of the clearing to the tree. When he reaches Washington, he pulls himself to his knees with a bruised hand clenched over the rope, his knuckles pale. He starts working at the knots with shaking fingers, refusing to meet Washington’s eyes.

The moment the rope goes slack and Washington can pull his arms free, he moves them— too fast for the nerves there, firing to life after fresh movement— too quick for Hamilton, who shrinks back into something small and terrified. He’s still curled in on himself when Washington gets untangled.

He stays close enough to steady his boy if necessary, far enough away to try for unassuming. “Hamilton?”

"Don't... don't fucking _touch me!"_ Hamilton rasps, voice wrecked, even as his eyes start to droop and his hand grasps weakly at his ruined shirt in a feeble attempt to pull it around him more tightly.

Washington halts. Kneels uncomfortably under the severe scrutiny under Hamilton's eyes fall shut and don't open again, until the tension bleeds out of his still frame.

When Washington stands, pain shoots through his lower limbs, but he manages to hurriedly remove any traces of their presence. He shakes the dirt out of his jacket and pulls it on, and uses Hamilton’s jacket to cover his boy. The spellbook and candles and rope, tinderbox and branch, Hamilton’s clothing removed and carelessly discarded by the doppelgängers, he shoves into the leather sack and slings it over his shoulder.

And when he looks back, Hamilton is still unconscious— which makes it easier to leave this place. Easier to think about the road ahead. He gently picks Hamilton up and cradles him in his arms, trudging back to their horses.

Washington's list of violations is already great. To save his boy, he can commit one more.

**Author's Note:**

> Waaaay back in March 2017 (two years ago now!?!), after Only One Man, came some rambling conversations about what other purposes doppelgangers could be put to. That inspired me so much that I wrote on a nonstop tare one day into the early hours of the morning, a simple idea that turned into a whole damn narrative. Life got in the way, but I never forgot this fic, and finally now I was able to finish it and set it free. (Also, who the fuck betas their own gift fics? DLY does, that's who. THANKS, ALWAYS.)
> 
> You can also find me on dreamwidth @ aidennestorm. :)


End file.
